


There but by the grace of God

by CakeorDeath



Category: Belle (2013)
Genre: F/M, Historical, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:42:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CakeorDeath/pseuds/CakeorDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle's spends most of her life with Davinier learning in detail just how lucky she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There but by the grace of God

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clio_jlh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio_jlh/gifts).



> Not deathfic – however it is reflection of Belle and motherhood, which mention the fact that Belle’s mother is not there. I hope that is okay, it is happy/wistful rather than sad. Indeed, it verges on the sappy.

The stacks of paper were beginning, inch-by-inch, to slip into each other. Some were a crisp, business-like white, some were yellowing and old. All were potentially important.

The papers were collected evidence to compile into pamphlets, books, articles, talks. The weapon of words upon words to slowly convince the undecided, inspire the campaigner and castigate the wicked with truth that had the flavour of truth did not have the sudden sharp effectiveness of a sword or a musket. Lives were lost, destroyed, ruined each second, as they tried to shape some easy story to make the case for not treating human beings like cattle.

The sight of such a mound of material to be sifted through always left Belle with a jangling mind. She exhaled, in hope of stilling it, but her breath hitched on some of the dust and tears were brought to her eyes.

Belle sat, taking care to maintain her dignity with her newly plump proportions. Her changing body made her feel as she had done at thirteen, unconscious, unsure.

Of course, “increasing” was the most natural thing a woman could do, far more right for a woman than sorting through mounds of paper all containing a million miseries, or talking with passion and authority at a meeting filled with men – some of whom were frightened into anger and rough speech.

But at the moment she felt as though she had rented out her body below her neck – and the new tenant was making improvements and changes of which she did not entirely approve, but could say nothing about because the attorney had hashed the terms of lease. When she said this to Bette it had been a joke. Alone and staring at all the work to be done – the never ending exhausting dispiriting vital work – it felt entirely true.

Perhaps she felt disconcerted by it because her Mama and Aunt Mary had never been blessed.

Of course, the Mama who had brought her to life, given her colour and hair and all the things that made her “Belle”, had been blessed. Although “blessing” was not a word that one could use to describe oneself without being conceited. And Belle would be having her baby with all the protection that wealth afford, all the comfort and luxury that her mother never saw.

Tears came. They were indulged, then dried. Belle went into the morning room and felt instantly brighter. John was writing letters, and there was the familiar, comforting rhythm of focussed scribbling broken up with intense thinking.

When he heard her come in he looked up. His eyes widened in alarm – “my dear, you are crying!”

“The dust.” She smiled. “And foolishness.”

Those intense eyes that could spend hours looking through papers to find one scrap of information that could be added to the pile that might just change the course of one court case or one man’s opinion, and that would eventually alter the history of Britain, and the world, and every soul who lived in it, focused themselves on Belle.

He contemplated her for a few long seconds. “If I suggest a doctor you shall become peevish,” he remarked, rather like a groom eyeing up an unbroken horse.

Belle’s eyes flashed. “Mr Davinier.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “You are not unwell?”

“I am in excellent health. I am just tired.”

He led her over to the sofa, moved one large pile of leaflets and they both sat down. The silence was not uncomfortable, but Belle new she was being invited to fill it.

“My mother – not _my Mama_ , but the woman who brought me into this world … I often wonder what she would think of me now.”

There was a pause.

“Well, she would certainly disapprove of this Davinier person.”

“Of course! I notice, by-the-by, that you have managed to get ink all over your cuffs again.”

“And you work too hard, too much time spent drowning in papers or staying up late with that reprobate (me, that is how your mother describes me to her friends and acquaintances in heaven), but she would also be mightily proud.”

Belle thought on this. “Would one have acquaintances in heaven?”

“I should imagine so, one can’t be intimate friends with everyone – it _is_ supposed to be paradise.”

Belle laughed and then kissed him.

Mr Davinier whispered into her hair, “If she could talk to you she would tell you that she was more proud than any mother who walked this Earth.” They drew apart. “Just think how proud you would be.”

“Hmm. Well, I should just like to make one thing clear, my dear John. Our son shall have nothing to do with revolutionary politics, or law. He shall go into business, become vulgarly wealthy and in my old age I shall be able to live in splendid surroundings with five hideous dogs.”

Once John Davinier had finished laughing he asked about if they had a daughter.

“She shall certainly never gallivant around in _inns_ or be found at meetings. She shall not leave our house until she is four-and-twenty and she will never express an opinion on anything more controversial than the new style for hats.”

“I shall tell My Lord and Lady Lindsay this, if you are not careful.”

“Hypocrisy is one of the joys of becoming parents – you must not destroy it for me.” Belle smoothed down her dress and composed her features. “I am sorry my dear, I have distracted you from work.”

“You are always a welcome distraction, but especially today. We have both been working too hard. Come, I will read to you, but on condition that it some scandalously silly novel.”

He was cosseting her, but she could not bring herself to mind. He never shielded her from the depths and darknesses he encountered, because he knew that women were not as a rule shielded from such things, and that protection of that nature was a prison, however gilded. “Well, that is part of the reason,” John had remarked when they had discussed it once, “but honestly commands me to tell you that you have a mind too useful to leave idle.” He had looked away. “And I cannot keep all of the stories of grief and melancholy to myself. I need to share them with someone, and you always listen, and understand better than anyone else.”

Belle had kissed him then, and at the memory of it she kissed him again. Moving towards the piano forte, she said, “I will play for you.”

Together, for that night, they shut out the world and sang something Scottish and lively. The papers filled with miseries would be still there in the morning, and John and Belle were prepared to face and fight them.


End file.
